


Almost Human

by sorrow_key



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Coma, M/M, One Shot, Sherlock as a roboter, references to vocaloids song kokoro, thoughs of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:31:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrow_key/pseuds/sorrow_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock was a nice person, despite being a genius?<br/>What if said Sherlock would die?<br/>A story, where Sherlock is an artificial human, constructed to be a dead boy.<br/>And John, whose fate is interwoven with Sherlocks; but will Sherlock realize before it's too late?<br/>It`s my first ff,still hope you'll enjoy it.^^</p><p>EDIT: Is currently being rewritten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is like a prologue,read and find out(:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So well,my first ff and English is not my mother tongue,I`m using google translator,so please tell me,if you find any mistakes. Searching for a beta!
> 
> Kokoro: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhd8yoDdfGY  
> Kokoro Kiseki:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P07CRgtwwbs

12-year old Mycroft Holmes was dripping wet.

Well,that was only natural, as he was waiting for his brother in the pouring rain, with nothing but the hood of his woolen jacket to protect him. Mycroft felt silly. 12 years was unfortunately old enough to feel self-conscious about things like looks and weight, but Mycroft was above that. He really was. And the only reason he hated the way his hair and clothes clung to his body was because it made it seem like he was another idiot who'd forgotten their umbrella.

Mycroft hadn't _forgotten_ his umbrella; he had purposely left it at home. Why a person as astute as the eldest Holmes son had done something as illogical as that, was as hard to comprehend (at least to the person in question) as it was easy to explain - Mycroft **hated** that thing.

Its colour was a bright yellow, with smileys of all kinds on it. Geeky. Childish. And Mycroft Holmes despised geeky and childish things.

However, he was also able to supress his pride. Hubris was as overrated as most emotions if you asked him. Yet for some reason, Mycroft couldn't stand to be seen outside with that thing. Even though his reputation should have been enough to shut rumors down and as such didn't have an impact on his election for head boy. Most probably it was hubris after all. Or his sense of fashion.

Anyways, he'd lost count of how many times (and for him to lose count was quite something) he tried to despose of the monstrosity,but mummy was always a step ahead of him. And for some reason, she adored it and wanted him to keep it, preferably until after he graduated.

He sighed. Because of things like this he sometimes couldn`t believe they were related, honestly,just how could something like that be considered cute? Or appropriate for a 12 year old?

Someone patted him on the shoulder and when he turned around, he saw a little boy with curly dark hair that was already starting to drip from the rain drops, but in no way getting any straighter, grinning despite the weather.

It was William, his little brother. Or Sherlock, the name Mycroft prefered over the rest. It truly was a shame that his little brother favored the more ordinary one.

Mycroft was not a fan of children. When his mother had started to have odd eating habits and throwing up sometimes, he had known what was coming at once. And he'd dreade it. Oh, how much he'd dreaded it. He knew about babies, about children, how they screamed through the nights, constantly demanded attention and destroyed everything in their wake. Unfortunately, his parents refused to send him to a far away boarding school, as they wanted him to 'bond' with his little brother and to remain in vicinity until high school at least. 

Too soon, the dreaded day came. Seven weeks before the supposed date, Mycroft came home to a house empty save for his nanny. 

In the afternoon, he was allowed (forced) to come to the hospital. The baby was small and thin and unexpectedly hairy. It was nothing like Mycroft. It also wasn't calm like his parents said he'd been. He'd heard the screams even in the elevator. But when he'd entered the mostly white room, the screaming gradually quieted down. Instead, the baby boy brabbled, as if going on about something absolutely ingenious and wondering why no one would understand him. His words consisted of syllables thrown together, a language only he could understand. However, he spoke surprisingly clearly, his voice not as high-pitched as the usual brats.

Mycroft had opened one of his school books silently. He gave it to his brother. The baby was too small to hold it, so mummy, who held him in her arms so very carefully, so very gentle, had to hold it for him. Tiny fingers touched the envelope, slid over the pages. Even his father, who had been against giving school property to a new born smiled. Even Mycroft did. 

Sherlock was the one and only exception, it seemed.

Yet, despite his genius, he was childish and alarmingly naive, contrary to his older brother. It was somehow... endearing, Mycroft thought.

As was proven now. "Here, My", the five-year old boy said festively and pressed something into Mycrofts hand.

It was a big umbrella, almost too heavy for the little boy. It was coloured in a simple black, professional instead of depressing. Mycroft thoughtfully opened it. It wasn't as hard to lift as it seemed. He closed it again and tried leaning on the handle like on a cane. Too large. He'd grow into it.

"Thank you, little brother. I am most grateful for your thoughtful gift", he said, genuinely moved despite the formality in his words. Yes, he really did like his little brother.

Seems like Sherlock's the safety gap in mummy's system. Mycroft smiled, satisfied. Sherlock beemed at being praised by the big brother he idolized.

"Let's go home. If you want to, I will lend you my computer to look up bees", the older boy proposed generously. That was extremely rare, as computers were rare things and with all the love, Sherlock was still only a little boy.

"Yes!",Sherlock cheered. "Thanks, My! How long do I have?" Always a practical one. Mycroft smiled, almost unnoticably. "Until 7 pm."

Murmuring something about keeping his own bees (making Mycroft imagine horror scenarios), Sherlock ran ahead, despite the rain soaking him to the bone now.

He stopped on the quiet street and waited for his older brother.

"Come on, My!", he called. "You should stay under my umbrella, mummy will be mad if we get even more wet", Mycroft stated disapprovingly, as he got closer.

Sherlock was allowed to stand on the quiet street because it was an unwritten rule for drivers to avoid it, to protect the little children in the area.

Suddenly, searchlamps flashed. A car. On the quiet street. The unwritten rule being broken.

**Sherlock!**

These were Mycrofts thoughts as he watched in horror as the car crashed into the slim body.

A loud scrunch which was the most awful sound Mycroft ever heard chimed.

The car stopped for a short time, but then speeded away.

The part of Myrofts brain not busy processing the events happening remembered the license: QW1823

A tiny figure was lying in a pool of blood. Everything was red, the curls sticky with liquid and his clothes either torn or bloodied. Something white glistened on his leg.

Finally Mycroft was able to move again. He ran towards Sherlock or he slowly walked, he really couldn't tell. The air was wet and hot around him, like the blood he was touching, desperately trying to stop. The air made things hard to process, invaded his mind, his lungs, destroyed him. Destroyed Sherlock.

He heard a scream, but it couldn't be his own, as his mind was deathly silent. Paralyzed.

Ragged breaths from beneath him drew his attention to something other than his brother's wounds. Sweat, tears and rain mixed together wasn't a pretty sight on his ghost-like face. Mycroft almost wished that death would've been instaneous, as the tortured look on Sherlock's innocent, young face broke a heart he wasn't always sure he had.

'You will be fine. Everything will be fine', Mycroft wanted to say, but he chocked on the lies that usually slid so smooth from his lips. It was not needed. They both would recognize the lie and neither had the power to believe it, both crippled by pain.

The little boy started coughing blood and even his face turned partly red.

He brabbled something and Mycroft was back in a white room, looking at the baby with curls so dark against the bright gown of his mother. Once again, he understood nothing.

He wished he did. He wished Sherlock would stay awake, alive and explain it himself.

But the clouded green eyes closed, finally allowing the boy to rest from the pain, to rest eternally.

For the first and last time for many years, Mycroft Holmes cried. Until the ambulance came, few watching him sympathetic, most not caring at all.

Hit-and-run cases were always sad for the involved, but common.

In the ambulance, in the hospital, Mycroft was there. When the sounds of the electrocardiogram went silent and the shouting of the doctos stopped, he was there. When his parents came, hugging him, their eyes full of tears, he was there.

But in his mind he was back at the road, looking only at the soon to be corpse of his brother and the ill-fated book they had went out to buy for Halloween.

Back then, Mycroft Holmes had already made his decision. It was impossible, positively insane and the only thing he could do.

Because the possibility of his brother not being in this world was unacceptable.

_Frankenstein._

 

 

<~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>

 

 

 10-year old Harry Watson locked herself in her room and cried soundlessly.

She cried because of her inability to protect her brother and herself,her _weakness._

She cried because of her attitude towards her little brother,who deserved a better elder sister.

She cried for him,who always took the beating for her,for herself,unable to do anything,for their past happy live sand their future.

She cried `cause she didn`t know a way to escape this nightmare.

And didn`t make a sound not to be a burden for her brother or worse,piss _that man_ of.

Then she heard the opening of the front door,angry shouting voices.

Mum finally snapped,she thought while hiding under her bed.But why NOW?

She heard someone being hitten,her brother telling him to stop.

Just let her alone,Harry thought angrily,the way she always did.Someone knocked  at the door but remained unheard.

Everyone was busy fighting and shouting,except for Harry,who knew it was her chance.

She opened her rooms door and sneaked through the hallway to the frontdoor.

Then she listened,good,noone noticed.And opened the door.

A young policeman stood there,watching the trembling girl concerned.

Lestrade,who was sentenced to helping the traffic police out,just because he`s a newbie,knew something was wrong the very minute he saw the house.

The garden looked overgrown,all the curtains had been shut and it reeked of alcohol.

A car was parked next to the house;exactly the same license plate number the little boy told them.

Harry Watson just whispered:"Help."Then she lost consciousness.

Lestrade caught her and listened to the fighting sounds.Poor girl,he thought while resting her in his car.

Then he called an ambulance,just to be certain and went in.

Three people were lying on the ground;a boy,beaten up quite badly,a terrified woman and a man with beer belly and miltary haircut.

Oh goodness,Lestrade thought and handcuffed the man.The little boy was already looking after his and his mothers wounds and scratches.Oh my god.

 

<~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>~><~<>

 

15-year old Mycroft Holmes, yet seeming much older, was watching a container with walls made of glass.

He was watching the boy in it; so much like his little brother, yet so lifeless (like his brother).

Ever since Sherlocks death he'd been working on this project; fooling his parents had been a problem, but they'd thought that the way he'd shut himself out was his way to mourn. Mycroft had never intended to mourn. Slowly building up considerable ressources had been a a bigger problem, due to his age and what he'd stated before.

But the hardest part had been to recreate the mind of the clone he'd grown.

His brothers memories had to be inserted; for that, all of his internal nervous systems had been recreated. 

But finally, after 3 years of making connections, work and experiments had paid off. Only a shock was needed to activate the heart, then the body's system should start operating on his own. In theory. So Mycroft wouldn't let himself get his hopes up - his goal was too unreachable, too soon achieved. He didn't trust it.

Ignoring his doubts and supressing his desire,Mycroft nodded to the professor, who looked very excited. He had been the one who had provided the lab and the ressources, just so he could find out if something like that was possible. If repl- No, recreating a human was possible. The man in the lab coat pulled the trigger and all of the container seemed to convulse at the shock. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... More seconds under more voltage than the human body was able to take. But because of the special mixture it was currently conserved in, it was perfect.

10 seconds.

The creature in the containor opened its eyes. They were a light green. They looked at him dispassionately, uncaringly. The dark side of himself, born in the monster he'd created.

Mycroft was once again paralyzed.

That's not him, not my brother, he thought. Who is this? Where is my brother?!

A stranger in his brothers body. A presence so cold opposed to William's warmth.

Mycroft wanted to scream at it, wanted it to give him back his brother.

He didn't; he couldn't cause a scene after he had gone so far to make this happen. He had to keep the facade.

So he gave it a fake smile and asked:"Do you know who you are?"

The creature which he loved dearly yet hated the most watched him with a sly expression on its face and answered: "My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You are my brother; Mycroft Holmes."

So the recreation of memories had worked. Then, what was the problem? 

Should he reattempt the experiment? Get ridd of the unfortunate byproduct?

No, he decided. He'd make it pretend, watch it and try again when he had more data. Of course, the best outcome would have been the complete recreation of William, as Mycroft didn't want his brother to miss any more years. Yet it was better to lower the risk of an unfortunate end.

And deep inside, so deep not even the controlled young man himself noticed, the hope blossomed, that the monster he'd created would gain a human heart one day. That all of the pain and suffering of three years ago would be layed to rest by his creation.

_Mycroft Holmes hoped._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is on hiatus,`cause my sis persuaded me to write her a story and I can`t write two stories at the same time  
> sorry^^`


End file.
